


[untitled domestic!george 5x fic]

by aimmyarrowshigh, spibsy (lucy_and_ramona)



Category: One Direction (Band), Union J (Band), X Factor (UK) RPF
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - Babies, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mentions of sex.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucy_and_ramona/pseuds/spibsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five very different Sunday mornings that George had with five very different boyfriends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	[untitled domestic!george 5x fic]

**001.**  
George wakes up at half-past two -- that's still morning in uni, isn't it, for a Sunday -- after Josh throws a sock on his face.

"Get up, get up," Josh urges. When George doesn't, Josh just crawls into his bed, as he does. "Get up," he repeats.

"Don't have to," George grunts. "'S'weekend."

"Yeah, but you have that paper due in ten hours." Josh straddles George's back, low near his hips, and starts rubbing George's shoulders to make him groan.

"It's not ten hours," groans George. "You're lying. I have, like, three weeks to get that done. Don't stop doing that."

"No," Josh says indulgently, as he knuckles down George's bare, smooth spine. "It's due in ten hours. Or actually now... nine hours and fifty-seven minutes."

" _No_." George shuffles his head around to narrow one eye at Josh. "That can't be true. Not allowed. It's Sunday."

Josh leans down and kisses George's prickly cheek, his mouth too beer-sour to get near. "It is, babe. Which is why your paper's due in nine hours and fifty-six minutes."

"Mm. But kisses are due right now," George insists, wriggling onto his back and splaying his arms out. "Or you'll fail my class. George-kissing class."

"I've already passed that," Josh says, but he gives an experimental rock over George's morning (afternoon) wood. "Last semester."

"That was the basic class. You're in advanced placement now." George smiles up at him. "Harder work."

Josh rolls his eyes, but also rolls down the waistband of George's flannel pajamas. "Two minutes."

"Two minutes," George cheerfully agrees. "And then I'll totally do my paper."

"Yeah, of course you will," Josh grumbles. He'd been writing his own proofs wearing only pants, so those are gone quickly enough.

"Promise." George does his best big innocent eyes at Josh. "I swear I will. It'll be the best paper ever written."

Josh doesn't say anything because he's too busy fishing a condom out of the torn box on George's bedside table.

That's just as well. George also cares more about sex than his paper, obviously enough.

And he really will take only two minutes. It's a specialty.

More than anything else, he just gets overwhelmed by how hot his boyfriend is, really. When Josh is into it, he's just about the best thing George has ever seen.

And he has all those football muscles, even if they do make his arsecheek on the right side bigger than the left, because of all the kicking. Feels the same, anyway.

"Lazy bum," Josh chides, his fringe drooping. "I should leave you here to rot."

"M'not being lazy." George smooths over the curve of Josh's bum appreciatively. "I'm appreciating the view."

"Appreciating, my arse." Josh's mouth hitches up at the corner. Almost a smile. Not a complete smile, because Josh only saves them for special occasions, but a decent one.

"Was that a joke?" George asks, then wets his lip as he watches Josh lean back to finger himself open. He's probably still a bit loose from last night; when they're drunk, Josh wants the headboard to shake. "Too early for wordplay."

"You're supposed to be writing a paper," Josh reminds him. "Never too early for wordplay."

George just groans, and it turns into a much more pleasant type of sound when Josh braces his hands on George's ribs and sinks down.

"Definitely two minutes.”

 **002.**  
George's head is pounding.

He knows instinctively that opening his eyes is a mistake, that doing so will release a flood of pain so great that he might just die, but his eyelids don't listen to his brain and squint open.

The bed feels oddly crunchy this morning. Sticky, he's used to, but crunchy is new.

His stomach lurches in a worrying way, but before he can think about that too hard, a loud (very loud, too loud) voice with an Essex accent says, "If you throw up in my bed you aren't ever getting in it again, babe."

George exhales a cloud of pure vodka and mumbles, without looking up, "Wyzzerbedcrunchy?"

"Don't mind that, just the glitter, innit?" The voice hasn't gotten less quiet. It may have gotten louder.

George rolls over and attempts opening one eye. Yes, he is lying in a pile of glitter. And feathers. And -- "What'm I wearing 'is time?"

“You look gorgeous." George can see the blinding smile in the corner of his vision. "As always."

"Doesn't explain... why my legs are so hot." George grunts and sits up. "Am I the bottom half of a polar bear?"

"Nothing about you is any sort of bear, Georgie."

"I'm furrier than usual," George protests. Outside the window, a -- "Is that a parrot? Did we buy a parrot last night?"

"It was an eventful night," Rylan evades, his face swimming into George's vision. He's very tan and very sparkly and he has coffee.

He's also completely nude save the bright pink feather boa around his neck, which George doesn't think he's seen before. He's a bit concerned for the parrot's mates.

"Coffee?" George requests, giving Rylan his best pitiful expression. "Smells like coffee."

"Yeah, yeah," Rylan says, and wiggles his way across the flat. A flat George is also fairly sure he's never seen before. They don't have wood flooring at home. Or so much wicker. George doesn't like wicker; his hair gets caught.

He shuffles around on the wicker-glitter bed and yes, his legs are definitely wearing what is clearly, now that he can see it, the bottom half of a panda bear suit.

"Who's house is this?" 

The parrot taps at the window and caws with great affection.

"Mate of mine, he had work, though." Rylan is doing some sort of interpretive dance with his boa. "Dance with me, Georgie."

"No," George grumps. "Coffee. Shall I let in his parrot?"

"Oh, I wouldn't, love," Rylan calls from the percolater, which is all entirely too loud. "Shouldn't let strange tropical birds into people's homes. You're too young to have seen the after school special."

"Why's'er a strange tropical bird in Brighton?"

"Why ask why?" counters Rylan. "Admire the view." He strikes a pose.

George toddles to the window, panda legs falling off him as he goes, and peers outside.

Not much of a view. The bird is pretty, but otherwise it's just a normal English morning except he's mostly naked and covered in glitter.

Oh, and the low, white stucco walls overhung with brilliant blue summer sky where it had, yesterday, been November, and the terra cotta rooftops and gutters below crawling with electric green lizards and _a goddamn wild parrot._ In the curling-fronded palm tree just outside the window, barred in wrought iron.

"Rylan," George says calmly, his head pounding. "This is not Brighton."

"No, my little cheese muffin," Rylan agrees. He rests his chin atop George's head -- the worst -- and gives his bum a good fondle with one hand while producing a chipped mug of coffee with the other. "Do you really not remember flying to Rio for the weekend? That cachaca was stronger than I thought, my favorite blueberry dumpling."

Rylan has this tendency to refer to George exclusively as various foodstuffs, which might explain why he's so fond of biting. "Why'd we go to Rio?"

Rylan kisses George's neck, then makes a noise and spits glitter into George's coffee. "Friday night, wasn't it? Why not?"

 **003.**  
It's early, wherever they are. Somewhere high enough above the world that they probably aren't really in a time zone at all. Somewhen.

George has never been able to sleep on planes. He still has the same little-boy fascination with looking out the window to see the clouds so close that he could touch them, and below them a long stretch of some city they're saying hello and goodbye to all at once.

Jaymi, however, falls asleep as soon as he's in any sort of vehicle. In Venice, he'd fallen asleep in their gondola.

It's equal parts exasperating and endearing, as George is fiercely in love and so pretty much everything Jaymi does is alternately exasperating and endearing. That's just the way it goes.

Even the excruciating weight of Jaymi's head pushing down on George's shoulder for the last six hours is pleasant, just because it means Jaymi is there.

The plane's going to land soon, though, and Jaymi'll get irritable if he doesn't have a minute or two to prepare before he's shuffled off through a load of people down the aisle.

George presses his nose into Jaymi's hair and sniffs before he presses a kiss to the top of Jaymi's head and attempts to shrug his numb shoulder. "Hey, babe. Wake up."

Nothing. Just another drawn out snore and then a snuffling snort that Jaymi would refute with his dying breath.

"Babe." George wiggles his shoulder yet more ineffectually. "We're landing."

There's a jimblejamble of nonsense words, a preface to Jaymi actually waking up.

(George loves it, the nonsensical mumbling that Jaymi does every morning -- or sometimes in his sleep. It always seems honest.)

He can actually feel his arm now, in tingling pins and needles. One more should do it. "Jaymi, wake up. The plan's about to land."

"Narglewafter," Jaymi grumbles, but his head falls off George's arm. His lips pout forward, and George wants to kiss them.

But they’re on an airplane, and there’s a little child staring over the seatback in front of them, so George just wriggles his shoulder more energetically. 

That wakes Jaymi up a bit more properly, his eyes swimming open. "Hiya."

"Hiya," George returns. "Nice sleep?"

Jaymi nods as the seatbelt sign starts and the captain drones something about landing temperatures and flying the friendly skies.

“Gave me a dead arm, so you better've." George twines his fingers with Jaymi's, almost all of the feeling back in them.

"You need livelier arms." Jaymi yawns, all sour breath in George's face as below them, the wheels touch down with a bumping bounce.

"That's probably also true," George agrees. He can't help his noodle-arms. They just grow that way.

Jaymi stands, the top of his head just barely dusting the overhead bins, to await their turn into the exit queue. George is too tall to do more than crouch, and that hurts his thighs.

This does give him a nice angle to prod Jaymi's bum, though. Which he does with relish.

"Ta, babe, but we're in public."

"Just a suggestion for later." George huffs a laugh to himself, a muffled giggle.

"Yeah, well, it's still a long train ride to home." Jaymi takes down their bags -- they always travel light.

George groans. "I forgot there's another four hours before we get back. Can't we just stay on the plane and make them fly to the flat?"

"I don't think so." Jaymi leans over the seats separating them and kisses George's cheek. "They frown on hijacking, I think."

"Too bad." George turns to slot his fingers through Jaymi’s. "Onwards?"

**004.**

It's nice, both having Sundays off from work. It's nice to wake up without it being to a cold side of the bed.

"We should do this more often," says Nick, his fingers resting at the curve of George's waist. "Why don't we do this more often?"

"Because we need to pay rent," George yawns. He smiles as it comes down, though. "And eat. And booze."

"Oh, the booze, too right." Nick laughs, resting his cheek on George's head. "Couldn't go on without that, could we?"

George shakes his head and nestles closer into Nick's arms. Although the flat they share is nice, the nicest one George has ever had, it's drafty and there are patterns of frost on the windows.

It's warmer here, though. Duvet and body heat mean that he's not cold unless he drifts too far across the bed.

And why would he ever want to do that?

"Do we have anything today?" asks Nick, his fingers curling into the hair at the back of George's head. "We don't, do we? We can just do this for a while?"

George nods. He lifts Nick's sleep-lazy arm so that he can tuck under it more securely, just the way he likes best. "Just dinner at your mum's but that's in like. Ten hours."

"Oh, lovely, two hours of my mother loving you more than me." Nick heaves a forlorn sigh. "You're stealing all my friends away from me. They all like you more, now."

"I'm very likable," George agrees, and bites a little at Nick's collarbone to prove it.

"Kitten boy." Nick's fingers dip low on George's hip. "Always got to be the cutest thing in the room."

George just smiles, mouth buried against skin and sleepiness.

"Tired?" asks Nick. "Think you could get a few more hours in before I start pestering you to get up and enjoy the day with me."

"Mmm-mn." George shakes his head. He slings a leg around Nick's hip. "Stay."

"Alright, okay." Nick laughs again, low and pleased. "I'm not going anywhere."

"If you're not going, maybe you could be coming?" George suggests, his voice the paragon of innocence.

Nick looks delighted. "Dirty boy," he says with clear admiration.

His long fingers traipse along George's spine, rubbing just how George likes over the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

"Is that a yes?" George asks hopefully, leaning up and over to rest on Nick's chest. "It's a yes, right?"

Nick heaves an enormous sigh, and it's clear that he'd slipped out of bed while George was still asleep to brush his teeth and put some sort of product in his hair, because he might think he's fooling George, but he isn't.

George is laughing when he kisses Nick’s collarbone. That's one of his favorite things about Nick, how much he gets to laugh while they have sex. Sex is supposed to be fun and ridiculous and happy. Nick makes it all those things.

Not that it hadn't been fun with other people, or anything. George likes to think with some amount of pride that he's never had _bad_ sex.

But he's never had sex where somebody's stopped in the middle of it to have a conversation about candles. Nick's unexpected, that way.

And it didn't even ruin the sex. They decided against the idea of hot wax and then went right back to it.

Every night's an adventure. And every morning. Life with Nick, really. One big adventure.

Probably, after they have sex, Nick will get a brilliant idea to go to Elephant and Castle to find Colombian food for breakfast, or something, or they'll pop on a train up to Manchester early and spend the day seeing the world's smallest ship in a bottle in some old Northern man's house and have a deal to come back at the next weekend to mow his lawn.

Not that both of those have happened.

Sometimes, though, they just settle, and watch cooking shows all day in their pants, taking all the blankets from the bedroom into the sitting room because it gets so cold that George's nipples near fall off.

Neither of them would like that.

Nick is a solid weight as he rolls in one smooth motion to get George underneath him, radiating warmth like a furnace, smelling like toothpaste and stability.

"Hi," George croons, happy, as he settles his feet flat on the mattress at either side of Nick's hips.

"Hiya," Nick greets back, nestling his hips against George's. "You're looking particularly pleased with yourself, Shelley."

"Can't help it," George says cheerfully. "I'm having a good morning, so far. Don't screw it up."

"I'll screw up you," says Nick, ducking his head to press it against George's shoulder. "Don't look at me."

"That was terrible," George agrees. "If you fuck as poorly as you tell jokes, my morning's down the tubes."

"I should think you've had enough experience by now to know the answer to that." Nick gives George's shoulder a playful little bite, while he's there.

"Yeah, well," George sniffs, letting Nick ease down George's pyjamas. "That's why I mentioned it."

Nick nuzzles his nose into the softness of George's stomach, his mouth warm, wet from licked lips as he smudges kisses against George's hip.

George hums, quiet and happy, a slow-treacle electric charge building up in his belly.

This is his favorite, quiet and slow in the morning, no pressing obligations or hangovers from the night before. Just him and Nick and sex.

The sheets and pillows smell like it, too, and it feels like this will be his entire Sunday.

Well, he's perfectly fine with that, and he imagines Nick is as well, from the way he's looking up at George with dark, warm eyes through his fringe.

He bites at the inside of George's thigh just to make him squeak.

"Bad," he admonishes, and Nick laughs.

"I love when you talk to me like you talk to Puppy," he says, giving George another bite for good measure. "Gets my dick happy."

“That's weird," George says seriously. "Should I be worried about that?"

"I wouldn't be." Nick wrinkles his nose. "I'm not worried about the bizarre sexually charged affair you're having with the coffeepot."

"She understands me," George protests.

"Then why's she a she?"

"We're just friends." George boops Nick's nose with one fingertip. "Don't get jealous of inanimate objects. It's not becoming."

"Yeah, yeah," Nick groans, and slips two fingers into his mouth before setting them to George just for a tease. "Any more 'she's' and you'll not be coming."

George hiccups out a laugh. "Right, that's told me." He lifts his own fingers to his mouth and zips his lips.

Nick grins and leans down to kiss George's fingertips where they're still lingering at his own mouth.

"Get on with it, then," George says, secretly pleased, nudging his knuckles against Nick's cheek. "Dazzle me."

"Get the lube," Nick counters. "Unless you don't feel like walking all day. And I'm not carrying you."

I'd carry you," George sulks.

"Charming but untrue."

"You're charming but untrue," counters George, and he's half-right and half-nonsensical, so he twists over to get the lube out of the drawer.

 **005.**  
George wakes up suddenly, out of a not-so-deep sleep, because someone's shrieking.

It takes him a minute to remember that actually, he doesn't have to call the police, and he doesn't have to frantically think back on whether he locked the doors last night.

He slumps his hand across the bed. "Harry. Harry. Baby's awake."

Harry snuffles once, nodding into the pillows, and they both roll out of bed. The bassinet is only steps away, but George gets there first, Harry padding down the corridor to the kitchen to fix a bottle.

"Hey," George greets in a hush, offering his pinky for a tiny hand to wrap around as his other arm scoops up the snuffling tiny human he's now responsible for. "Hey, shhh, no need to cry."

She's tiny and still red-pink and squashed-looking, miserable and needy in his arms.

And she's just about his favorite person in the whole world.

Her grip is surprisingly tight on his finger, but her jellybean mouth is still open and wailing in the tiniest, saddest voice George has ever heard.

George bounces her a little, more of a jaunty sway than anything, blinking through the sleep remaining in his eyes. He'd known that babies were loudness and work, but the reality of it is still getting through to him.

"Don't worry, little one," he croons. "Your bottle's coming."

"And it's here," announces Harry, his voice hoarse with sleep. He's only in pants, and George lets himself have a quick gander. Nothing'll come of it but looking's all he's been able to get for a week.

George beams down at the baby and bends to touch their noses together so, so gently. "Harry to the rescue, little one."

"I guess being a dad's as close to being a superhero as I'll ever get," Harry muses, gesturing to George with the bottle in his hand. "You or me, love?"

"You got her last time." George eases back onto the bed and sits cross-legged up near the pillows, bundle of baby cradled in his arms.

"So I did." Harry relinquishes the bottle and tucks himself beside George, his eyes on the baby. "Thought of any more names?"

It's become a nightly ritual, trading back and forth on potential names for the baby while she has her bottle. Sometimes it devolves into mayhem with Gertrude and Lightning, but most of the time it's productive.

Whoever she is, the baby latches onto the bottle easily and gratefully, and she settles down into a warm almost-nothing everything in the crook of George's arm, her tiny belly next to his heart. She makes soft noises while she's feeding and she has tiny fingers and toes.

"You start," he offers quietly, tucking his nose down against her baby-scented head.

Her eyes are bright, pale blue and dozy, but he could swear she's looking right at him in the violet monochrome darkness of their bedroom.

Harry hums. "Uhh, Daisy."

George touches her little toes. "Not a Daisy. Josie?"

"As in Josie and the Pussycats?" Harry sounds thoughtful. "Hm. Put it in the maybe pile. Victoria?"

"That's too much name for such a small baby." Her little tummy gives a gurgle and one leg kicks. Harry looks enchanted beside them, reaching over to slip one hand beneath George's arm to help support her back -- or really, just to be touching them both, his George and their baby.

"She will eventually not be a baby, I think that's how that works." He sounds so fond. "We'll shelve that one."

George rests his ear against Harry's shoulder. "That doesn't seem possible. She's so _small_."

"Are you thinking a shorter name, then?" Harry gives George's forehead a quick kiss. "That's a start."

"I don't know." George yawns, his own eyes almost as droopy as Baby's. "No name is good enough. But I s'pose we need one soon."

"It's been a week," Harry says gently. "Unless we want her to be a Spice Girl, she should probably have a name other than Baby."

"That wouldn't be so bad," George says. "Girl power. And anyway, her real name was Emma."

"I like Emma," Harry muses. "How do we feel about Emma?"

There's a little burble and George knuckles away some formula drip from the side of her cheek. "I think she likes it."

"I like it, too." Harry leans over George's shoulder. "Hello, Emma," he tries, visibly feeling the name in his mouth.

Harry tickles the bottom of one little wrinkled foot with the tip of his finger, and Emma jolts, her little toes working.

"Emma," George repeats. "It's a good name. Good name for a good baby."

Harry kisses George's lips, then moves slowly and carefully to kiss Emma's forehead. "The best baby in the world, you mean. The best everything."

George smiles. "The best everything," he confirms. The baby's settled down, twitching her foot toward Harry every so often, her tiny eyes blinking, blinking, staying closed.

It's a different sort of morning -- if three a.m. can even be called 'morning' -- than the sort George would ever have called 'best' before, but it is absolutely perfect.

It doesn't seem like that long ago that he was waking up with no idea how he'd got to Rio, and now he's got a family, made up of a Harry and an Emma and a George.

He's grown up a lot since morning was a full twelve hours later than this, back in college with Josh. When the only bottles he knew were filled with booze.

He'd never thought, back then, that he'd ever settle down.

He'd loved his year of jet-setting, a different country every weekend, all of his possessions able to fit in carry-on luggage.

He's loved people and places and things but he doesn't love anything or anyone more than what's right in this room with him.

It's something big, something that ties his days down -- no more being able to lounge and do nothing for hours on end. He hasn't even slept more than three hours at a pop in days.

He can't imagine lazy days in bed anymore. He has a kid to take care of. He's a far cry from the guy he used to be.

Then again, Harry is a far cry from the guys he used to date, too.

"I think she's back to sleep," Harry whispers, his hand bigger than Emma's whole head as he touches the peach-fuzz on top. "Want me to put her down again?"

George yawns. He's desperately tired, but he doesn't want to move -- neither he nor Harry likes to let Baby, Emma, she has a name now, _Emma_ , out of their arms.

Reluctantly, he allows Harry to take her from his arms, giving her a kiss on her tiny head before she gets too far away.

If he stretches his arm right, he can touch her little foot in her bassinet at the bedside, anyway.

Harry's humming a song under his breath, something from the radio but anything sounds enough like a lullaby when it's being hummed.

He rests his cheek against George's chest and folds their hands together.

"Three more hours?" Harry says. He's trying for wry but George can recognize the pleased happiness in his voice for what it is.

George wraps his free arm, the one not making sure Baby Emma is still there, around Harry's waist to haul him closer. Even though Harry's taller, he makes the loveliest little spoon.

"Good night," Harry murmurs in his ear. "Or good morning, I guess."

George turns his head to catch Harry's lips in a kiss.


End file.
